Lalmohan Babu wanted Feluda to meet Laxman Bhattacharya. But the astrologer was out and his room was locked. We came out of Sagarika and began walking back to our hotel. The beach was quite crowded by this time, for the clouds had dispersed and the sun had come out. There was a hotel on our right, not far from the beach. ‘That’s the Railway Hotel,’ Feluda said. ‘Most of these people are staying there.’ We made our way through the crowd and moved away. Suddenly, someone called out: ‘Mr Mitter!’ A tall gentleman was standing alone, away from groups of bathers, and smiling at Feluda. He must have spent quite a few days on the beach, for when he removed his sunglasses, I could see a pale mark running from his eyes to his ears. The rest of his skin was deeply tanned. He came walking towards us. He was nearly as tall as Feluda and quite good-looking. He had a beard and a neatly trimmed moustache. ‘I have heard of you,’ he said. ‘Are you already working on a case?’ ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘There’s been a murder, I gather. So I thought you might be making enquiries.’ Feluda laughed. ‘No. I haven’t been asked to investigate, so I couldn’t make enquiries even if I wanted to.’ ‘You’re staying at the Neelachal, aren’t you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Er . . .’ he seemed to be hesitating. ‘Have you been appointed as guard?’ Feluda asked. I had noticed it, too. The man was clutching three golden rings in his hand. He gave an embarrassed smile. ‘It’s such a bore . . . but you’re right. These belong to a guest in my hotel. I met him only yesterday. This morning, he said he wanted to have a swim in the sea, but was afraid these might come off. So he asked me to hang on to them until he came out of the water. I wish I hadn’t agreed.’ Before any of us could say anything, the owner of the rings arrived, dripping wet and accompanied by a Nulia. We recognized him instantly. It was our ‘golden’ fellow passenger, Mr M.L. Hingorani. He saw Feluda and shouted, ‘Good morning!’ Then he took his rings back, and said ‘Thank you’ to the gentleman, adding that out of all the beaches he had seen in Goa, Miami, Acapulco and Nice, there was none like the beach in Puri. We said goodbye to him and began walking again, this time accompanied by the bearded gentleman. ‘I don’t think I got your name—?’ Feluda began politely. ‘No, I didn’t tell you my name, chiefly because I thought it might not mean anything to you. There is a special area in which I’ve made a small contribution, but not many would know about it. I am called Bilas Majumdar.’

Feluda frowned and looked at the man. ‘Have you anything to do with mountains?’ he asked. ‘My God, your knowledge . . . !’ ‘No, no,’ Feluda interrupted